


Be Still My Racing Heart

by KeepGayGirlsSafe



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 08:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15703701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepGayGirlsSafe/pseuds/KeepGayGirlsSafe
Summary: Illegal street racing is a popular sport in LA, and Brigitte, the daughter of a brilliant mechanic, has always dreamed of racing alongside the professionals. While working in the her father's shop, a mysterious customer turns out to be none other than Diva, one of the greatest racers of all time. Since her accident 2 years ago, Hana has been out of the game, but Brigitte is determined to get her back in.





	Be Still My Racing Heart

“Brigitte!” Torbjörn shouted up the stairs, “You’re going to be late for work!”  
Brigitte stirred, all too familiar with her father shouting her name from across the house. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, “Coming, pappa!”  
“Oh no no no, that’s what you said last time and you were an hour late!” He hollered back, “You’re lucky you haven’t been fired!” He said with a huff as he headed out the door.  
Brigitte rolled her eyes and sat up in bed with a stretch. It was hard for her to get up so early in the morning when she’d spend most of her nights working on projects far later than she should. She swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed, avoiding the desire to just wrap herself in blankets and sleep until midday. Unfortunately, for her sake, her father started his day at exactly 6 a.m. every single morning and always made sure his youngest daughter wasn’t far behind. Brigitte trudged over to her dresser and picked out a work appropriate outfit. She pulled off her loose tank top and sleep shorts in exchange for a sports bra, a well fitted tank top, and Carhartts. She took the sleeves of the coveralls and tied them around her waist, as was her style. She made her way to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth and then brushed out her impressively long auburn hair and tied it back with one of the many hair ties scattered across the counter. She took her time as she went through her morning routine, not paying much attention to the time.  
In the kitchen, she hummed to herself as she popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. She grabbed some cat food from the closet and filled the bowl resting on the floor. Leif, Brigitte’s cat, heard the music of breakfast and came scuttling into the kitchen. Brigitte reached down and stroked the fat orange tabby cat, which gave her a joyous mew in return. She nabbed her toast as it sprang up and glanced at the clock. She was going to be late.  
“Knulla!” She exclaimed as she scarfed down one piece of toast and ran out the door with the other one in her mouth.  
She rarely ever drove to work since it was only about a 20-minute walk. With the city traffic, driving would take twice as long. She didn’t mind living in Los Angeles. Her family had moved to California from Sweden well before Brigitte was born, back when her parents were still youthful and full of life. Her father would always speak wistfully of life back in Sweden while telling her stories from his youth, but he always made sure to reassure her that she had a much better life here in the United States. That was one thing Brigitte could never understand though. How could roaming the streets of Gothenburg with your close friends, visiting all the ice cream shops and getting enough free samples to make three sundaes be worse than walking home from school and finding a man who overdosed in the alley behind your house? Torbjörn had always talked about going back, but it was always just an idea. They had built a life in the city of angels, and there was no way they could just pack up and move. Especially since Brigitte’s mother had passed away 4 years ago. She became incredibly ill unexpectedly and passed within 6 months of being diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. Piles of medical bills and end of life expenses, neither of which were covered by insurance, started stacking up. Moving back to Sweden was no longer and idea. It wasn’t even a thought. Both Brigitte and her father were still sore on the topic. All her siblings mourned the death of their mother, but they had their own families and lives in different states; it didn’t affect them the same way. Brigitte never moved out once she was old enough. She couldn’t just leave her father in an empty house.  
Brigitte’s train of thought was interrupted by the loud revving of engines and two hot rods came flying down the street. Her face lit up as the racers flew past her and disappeared around the corner. She cheered and smiled to herself, wishing she could stay and watch the race. Illegal street racing was a popular sport in Los Angeles. Most racers consisted of hotheads with fancy cars and big egos who would challenge random drivers at red lights, but there was a different kind of racer. Elite racers who made a living racing down designated streets against equally elite racers. Brigitte had heard of a few of these races through the grapevine and was able to actually watch a handful of the extremely exclusive events. A lot of the cars were tricked out with gadgets for either stopping other racers, defending themselves, or propelling them into first. The races always started and ended in remote locations as to not draw attention from local law enforcement, but occasionally there would be a story in the paper about a street racer being arrested and questioned, but they never said a peep about the underground racing league. The racers themselves always wore fun costumes or had some sort of theme. Brigitte could remember the Lone Ranger, a racer who dressed up as a cowboy and always raced alone. There was also this spunky British girl and a big man who wore a gorilla costume. The referred to themselves as Beauty and the Beast. Brigitte’s favorite racer though was this Korean girl named Diva. She was really cocky and always taunted her fellow racers, but it was never in vein. She was the best of the best, and according to other patrons watching the races, she had never lost. Brigitte had only gotten to see her race a few times, but she always blew the competition out of the water. But that was a couple of years ago, and she hadn’t seen or heard about her favorite racer recently. There were rumors that she had died in the championship race during her final season, but no one knew for sure. The only thing that they knew for sure was that during her final race, one of Diva’s tires blew, she lost control, and rolled her car over a dozen times.  
Brigitte had always wanted to become one of those racers. Well, maybe not an actual racer, but fix up a car capable of keeping up with the professionals. She had been designing racing cars for years in her free time, but never actually took the time to make one. The fact that she worked alongside her father at his mechanic shop only added fuel to the fire, but she never actually had the time or resources to follow through. One day, her father had seen all of her sketches and calculations sprawled across her workbench. He was furious that Brigitte was even thinking about participating in those insane, deadly races, and forbid her from it. She assured Torbjörn that she would never actually do it, but from that point forward, she made sure to work on her blueprints in private.  
Brigitte finally reached her father’s shop. She walked in through one of the open garage doors where her father was tearing something out from the engine block of a large truck. Torbjörn, being a man of small stature, had to use a step stool in order to reach  
“You’re late, girl,” Torbjörn warned as his daughter entered the shop.  
“Yeah, I know, are you going to write me up?” She joked.  
“Maybe, if you don’t watch your tone.” Torbjörn said with a hand on his hip.  
Brigitte gave her father a tight hug, “Oh pappa, you know you love me!”  
“Yes of course I do,” he muttered through her tight grip, “But try telling that to the customer you’ve kept waiting for 45 minutes.”  
Brigitte became worried, “Wait, what? Why couldn’t Reinhardt help them?”  
The loud clang of metal followed by what she could only assume were German swears came from the underneath of the car in the next workstation over.  
“He’s busy, and so am I, and besides, “He leaned in to whisper, “She kind of scares me.”  
Brigitte playfully punched his shoulder as he let out his classic jolly laugh, “Only you could be so intimidated by woman who knows what she wants.”  
“Get to work.” He said playfully as Brigitte made her way to her station. She hurried down to the third and final station where the customer in question was waiting.  
“I’m so sorry about the wait.” Brigitte apologized before the girl even knew she was there. The girl turned around to meet her mechanic. She was striking, wearing an oversized, fancy coat that cut off just at her knees along with a big pair of sunglasses. Her long brown hair came complete with bangs and perhaps her most notable feature was the deep scar the cut through her chin on the left side of her face, ending right at her bottom lip. The girl was about a foot shorter than Brigitte and appeared to be around her age; much different than her usual customers. She looked vaguely familiar, but Brigitte couldn’t place her face.  
The girl looked her up and down, her face remaining expressionless, “No worries,” she said in a high, very feminine voice, “It happens to the best of us.”  
“Thank you for understanding,” Brigitte looked over at the car she had pulled into the garage. It was a big, black SUV and it looked brand new, “So what seems to be the problem?”  
“Oh yes, the car. There’s not exactly a problem per se, I was just hoping you could take a look at it and make sure everything is working properly.”  
“Yeah, I can do that. I’m Brigitte by the way.” She extended her hand and the girl took it gingerly.  
“Hana.”  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Hana. Can I see your keys please?”  
She handed over her ring of keys to the mechanic. Brigitte noticed a key chain with a hauntingly familiar bunny emblem, but she couldn’t remember where she had seen it. She shrugged it off and began her inspection. Everything about the car was perfect, almost like it had never been driven before. She would have suspected as much if it didn’t have six-hundred miles on it.  
“This car must brand new.” She commented as she exited the driver’s side. Hana had been watching her this whole time, which was odd. Most customers went to the lobby to wait, but she had politely declined.  
“Oh, it’s not that new. I’ve had it for about two years now.”  
“Two years and you’ve only managed to put six-hundred mile on it?” Brigitte was amazed.  
“I don’t get out much. At least not lately.” She seemed a little uneasy, so Brigitte changed the subject.  
“Well,” she started, “As far as I can tell, everything looks perfect, actually. Honestly, the only thing I could find was that one of your tires was a little low, but that’s about it. I went ahead and aired it up for you.”  
“I knew there was something wrong,” Hana said triumphantly, “The last place I went said that my car was fine.”  
“It was minor, but none the less, it’s fixed now,” She offered her her keys back.  
“Thank you, I appreciate it.” She took her keys back.  
“I like your keychain by the way,” Brigitte commented, “Where’d you get it?”  
Hana suddenly became less cheery and a scowl came across her face, “I made it. It’s just an old memory now. Anyway, here’s for the service. Keep the change,” She handed Brigitte a wad of cash which was definitely more than enough to cover the inspection, “Thank you again.”  
It was right then, as Hana started to get into her car, that Brigitte realized who she was talking to. The bunny emblem was Diva’s signature. She wore it proudly on her racing suit to every event. D.Va was a short Korean girl with long brown hair complete with bangs. Brigitte felt her heart flutter as she went out on a limb.  
“Diva?” She asked cautiously.  
Hana stopped dead in her tracks. There was a heavy silence fell between the two girls, both waiting for the other to break the tension.  
Finally, Hana spoke, “I don’t go by that name anymore.”  
Brigitte lit up, “I knew it was you! I’m a huge fan of yours! Oh my god I have so many questions-“  
Hana cut her off, “No. I’m not answering any questions, I’m not signing anything, and I’m not taking any pictures. I am going to leave, and you are going to forget you saw me.”  
Brigitte felt her heart sink, “No please, wait, I just have one question!”  
Hana paused, signaling for her to continue.  
Brigitte didn’t actually have a question planned, so she thought for a moment before deciding on the one question she really wanted to know the answer to.  
“Did you have fun?”  
A look of surprise flashed across Hana’s face before she answered, “The most fun of my life.” She paused for a moment, as if she wanted to continue, but eventually climbed into her car and drove off without another word.  
The rest of Brigitte’s day went by incredibly slowly. Whether it was the lack of business or her celebrity customer, she wasn’t sure. The rest of her shift was dull in comparison to the first hour. She couldn’t stop thinking about Diva, or Hana, as she said. She had so many more questions she wanted to ask, and every time she recalled their encounter, she only had more. Why didn’t she race anymore? Is that scar from her accident? Did she want to start racing again? Brigitte busied her racing mind by working on her designs for race cars. She began to think of what Diva would drive if she got back into racing. Brigitte began to think that maybe she could convince Hana to start racing again, and maybe she’d let Brigitte design her new car. She knew it wouldn’t happen, but that didn’t stop her from daydreaming the rest of her shift.  
“Brigitte?” Torbjörn called into his daughter’s station. She didn’t answer, but he noticed her sitting at her workbench scribbling on a piece of paper, “Brigitte, it’s well past closing, are you ok?”  
She looked up, just now noticing her father. She quickly flipped her papers over and shoved them to the side, “Yeah pappa, I’m fine. Just… working on something.”  
“You’ve been very quiet today. Which is odd, considering you’re usually scolding me about my lack of safety.”  
“I’ve just been… busy,” Brigitte said offhandedly.  
“What’s on your mind, älskling?” He sat down next to her.  
“Let’s say, hypothetically, I have a friend who stopped doing something they loved, but it was the most fun thing they had done in their whole life. How do I get them to at least try it again?”  
Torbjörn thought for a moment, “Well, I suppose it depends on why they stopped doing it.” He stroked his long, braided beard, “But if they truly love it, I’m sure they’ll come around. It just might take some time. Just make sure you don’t push them into something if they aren’t ready for it.”  
Brigitte hugged her father, “Thanks pappa.”  
“Of course, my dear. Now come,” He hopped off the bench and headed for the door, “I’m cooking dinner tonight.”  
“It better not be meatballs and macaroni again.” Brigitte warned.  
Torbjörn smiled smugly, “We’ll just have to see.”  
The next morning went like any other morning. She woke up and got ready for work, but she was still thinking about her encounter yesterday. It was hopeless. Brigitte had no way of contacting the former racer, nor did she know enough about her to actually find her. If all of the street racing junkies thought she was dead, there was no way they’d know where she lived.  
Brigitte walked the route to work, just as she always did. Sure, she liked working for her father, but she was tired of doing the same thing every single day. Get up, go to work, go home, go to sleep. Sure, there was the occasional shopping trip or monster movie marathon with her godfather Reinhardt, but Brigitte didn’t have many friends. All of her friends had packed up and moved away after high school, and at 23, she was still living at home. There was a pit of guilt in her stomach though. Although he would never admit it, her father was struggling to pay the bills. With all of her mother’s expenses and the shop slowly losing business, it would only be a matter of time before he went under. Brigitte did the best she could. She helped out as much as she could and always refused to accept any form of payment from her father. She always told him to keep it for rent and all of the food she ate, but he would occasionally force a paycheck on her. Nonetheless, there was nothing that really excited her anymore. The only time she ever really felt excited was when she’d sneak off from work to go see the races. The roar of the engines, the cheering fans, the comradery, all of it took her to a different realm where she didn’t have to work about working or bills.  
She strolled into the auto shop, just as she always did. She walked down the three garages, first saying hi to her father, then to Reinhardt. She waltzed into her station, ready to start another 8-hour shift when she noticed someone was there, perched up on her workbench, flipping through her blue prints. It was Diva.


End file.
